Boogie Man
by Valkyrien
Summary: Is there something under the bed tonight..? Rated for content although it is not text-book graphic.


_**DISCLAIMER: None of this belongs to me, all characters are property of the creators and I am not one of them.**_

This fanfic is dedicated to the beautiful, inimitable AshmandaLC who recently had to undergo a surgical procedure and the loss of two good friends to their career choices

which put them at a great distance to my li'l punkin pie. It's taken me a while to get this to where I felt it was worthy of her, so sweets, go ahead and judge thy humble servant.

For the rest of you, I just hope you enjoy it.

~ Valkyrien ~

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_**Boogie Man**_

There was silence. Not an oppressive, choking silence, not a silence ripe with opportunity and options, no. It was a heavy, still, promising silence.A silence that amplified silence itself. A silence you could taste, and it tasted of spice and ash and anticipation. She gazed out of the window, leaning her shoulder on the door, her eyes tracing the shadows and lightning-bolts of illumination in the deep black of the night around them. She knew where they were going, of course, but not where they were, and she half hoped, half fantasised about all the places they _could_ be going under cover of the dark, if he'd only take her there. She'd never know until they stopped...

But her dreams of abduction and consenting kidnap were cut short by the realisation that they _had_ stopped, and he had opened her door for her, was waiting for her to get out. She took her time, dragging out the seconds to make the time together last, stretch the silence. He took her hand as she disembarked the car, helped her out, but she didn't look at him directly, she only glanced to the side as she passed him, caught a sheen of the dark indigo dress shirt he'd worn to take her to dinner. She walked to the covered area of the porch, the deeper dark there casting shadows that almost seemed touchable.

His hand was resting against the small of her back and she turned to look at him. This was her door, this was the end of the silence, end of the dream. This was when she received the smile, the brushing of his lips against the back of her hand, the murmured thanks for her company this evening. His hand moved to her arm, sliding down it in a way that melted her from the inside out, his eyes devouring her reaction – or rather, her deliberate lack thereof, and he rested his fingers lightly on her elbow, but he might as well have been gripping her hard enough to bruise for there was no way she would have been able to tear away. No way she wanted to. His lips parted and she expected the courteous good night and the smooth accented tone he always used with her, but his smile flashed an insolent white in the gloom and his voice was rough and more than a little desirous.

"_Ma belle chere_, y' so fine makes _un homme_'s heart bleed t' go – sure hate t' leave a beautiful _femme_ like y'self alone when dere be boogie monsters out dere dat go bump in de nigh'..." And she was flattered, for all she knew what he truly wanted, that he wished to stay for vastly different reasons than he was implying. Safety had very little to do with it. He leaned in and brushed her cheek with a kiss that was more a question.

"Can I come in, _chere_..?" She breathed in and nodded, her smile outshining his as she unlocked her door and he stepped in, leaning into her as they entered, his eyes dancing.

"Gotta be a gentleman, _chere_, make sure y' safe an' all..." he whispered, and she shivered a little, closing the door after them and discarding her purse to one side. She shook out her hair and slipped past him to the door of her room, and he followed as if he were her shadow, except very real, and infinitely touchable. His hands found her shoulders and he slid the straps of her black dress over them, kissing her left shoulder briefly, a gesture that caused her to turn to him, and his hands to move to the zipper at the side of the garment. With infuriating lack of haste he opened it and helped the dress on it's way to the floor where she stepped out of it and turned her own attention to the jacket slung over his shoulders and the buttons of the aforementioned shirt that blocked her access to her goal – his bare skin.

They landed on the floor next to her dress in short order and she moved on to the pressing matter of his pants. The apparent patience he had displayed during her own undressing was spent, it seemed, and he was bereft of pants more by his own hand than hers in the end. She hadn't bothered with underwear, the bodice of her dress and the warm, humid night air made any such seem obsolete and it seemed neither had he. They spent half a minute simply taking the sight of each other in before he pulled her to him and dotted kisses over her face, her neck, her shoulders... He neglected not one inch of her skin and her lips were tingling by the time he gently turned her around to run his hands down her back and sides, his lips following the path his hands laid out before he turned her to face him again and took her hands, leading her to her bed. She smiled at the errant thought that yes, queen size was indeed practical, as were the four posts framing in the corners of the thing and she cocked her head to one side, gazing at him.

"Aren't ya gonna check under mah bed f' boogie men..?" she teased, and his grin turned wicked as he bent down ever so slowly, allowing her a good view of him, and looked under the bed.

"All clear, _chere_," he drawled, his voice dripping with need, and before she knew it he'd scooped her up in his arms and all but tossed her on the covers and was leaning over her, his lips against hers as they embraced, the sudden sensation of every inch of her pressed against every inch of him like that enough to make her moan, and he lifted his head to kiss his way down her neck to her breasts, his hands holding her arms out to either side so she couldn't interfere with his particular brand of torture.

She was at once torn between admiration for his ardour, and impatience, and she made noises appropriate to both states of mind, both of which he took into consideration before migrating southward and demonstrating quite new heights of before-mentioned ardour. She could hardly argue with _that_. What veiled promises his deft tongue and silken accent promised in speech he delivered in full with interest now, and she writed and moaned under his talented hands, finally letting him know with a more than definite hand in his hair that enough was enough and that a girl needed more. His response was to grin and move up to kiss her, more than ready to commit himself, and she felt the fullness of that as he entered her smoothly and she swung her left leg up to rest against his shoulder as he set a pace no thoroughbred would be ashamed of.

The cacophony of their moans trickled through the layer of her consciousness that was busy filing away the images of his glistening abs and glowing eyes, and through them she heard what he was actually saying.

"_Merde, chere, tu est une femme majuscule!_"

She was forced to agree and used his momentary lapse in control to place her hands firmly on his shoulders and shove him backwards so as better to use him for her own purposes. The appreciative growl she met with in return spurred her on, and for a while she lost all sense to the way they seemed to fit together so perfectly and the enduring romance of a situation so basically primal.

He surprised her by pulling her down and turning them over – yes, queen size was most definitely the way to go – while placing his hand in the crook beneath her knee and _lifting_ –

"_Remy!_"

The whole world shattered as she heard him call for her as well, and she felt him fall into her as though suddenly bereft of every bone in his body while his muscles clenched and unclenched in a viciously real testament to their union.

When her vision cleared – her eyes had been open through it, but all she'd been seeing were stars interspersed with white picket fences and the word 'hattrick' – he was propped up on his elbows above her, an ardently devoted expression on his face that made him look both dazed and that bit more gorgeous.

"_Chere... Tu est bellisime.. Merci._" The honest quaver in his voice and the way his hand in her hair trembled won the field.

"Mah pleasure, sir," she said coyly, her own voice more a languid drawl than anything, and he shivered slightly and closed his eyes.

"_Je t'ai –_ "

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"**Get UP, it's seven A.M and we're LATE!"**

The harsh light cut into her crusty green eyes as she opened them, and she stared right into a pair of righteously indignant, burgundy-shadowed grey ones that somehow never meant anything good.

"Jesus Christ Shepard of Judea! Ah do _**NOT**_ wanna see your face wakin' up lahke that!" she shrieked, pushing Wanda Maximoff away from her and sitting bolt upright in her bed, feeling just as pleasantly used as she would have if she really had just – oh Lord and his Angels, she could still feel it, the tingling just beneath her skin –

"Get _**UP!**_" She was quite suddenly lying in an undignified heap amongst her blankets on the floor next to her bed, the Scarlet Witch standing over her in all her vengeful glory. The tingling had vanished, only the frontrunner of hexing to come, and the Southern Belle staggered to her feet with every intention of fighting the battle in Wanda's eyes.

"The guys are waiting for us outside, what the hell did you take to sleep like that? Let's get a move on!" Wanda yelled, and it hit home. The guys. Field trip. A certain Cajun who'd invited himself along as Rogue's escort –

"Oh hell no!" With all the speed of any young woman needing to dress and primp in under five minutes tops, she leapt into the bathroom and barricaded the door, immune to Wanda's angry nagging on the other side as she tore off her nighty and was suddenly assailed by her hairbrush.

"Wanda!" she screamed, aware that this was assistance from a bitchier place.

"I am **helping** now get your arse dressed or we are going pantsless!" came the answering shriek, and she resolved to accept the help offered as graciously as possible in the understanding that hairbrushing was a close second to make-up application in importance and couldn't be achieved while dressing on one's own.

The help meant that four minutes later – albeit one last coat of eyeliner less than usual – she was at Wanda's side, striding out the door in full Gothic Bitch regalia with her hair brushed to perfection and the borrowed jeans as slick as vinyl could get. Seating herself behind whoever had been kind enough to hoist her onto their bike (a girl can't be expected to look AND act awake at ten past seven A.M), she settled against someone who smelt vaguely of gumbo and felt all the liquid warmth spilt over from her vivid dream flow through her all over again. As she sensed the comforting rumble against her that meant he was speaking to her, the words flowed into her ears and sent her mind reeling again.

"I had a dream about y' las' nigh', _chere_..."

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**A MESSAGE FROM OUR ENABLER:**

Any translations that Babelfish screws up for you to the point where it makes no sense, give us a shout and I'll gladly translate the crap out of it ^v^

**AND THIS CONCLUDES OUR BROADCAST DAY.**


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